


Freight Car

by asgardianthot



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Romance, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hydra (Marvel), M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-HYDRA, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve Rogers, Sad smut, Smut, Steve feels guilty, steve cares for bucky, the winter soldier words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 02:23:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19880038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asgardianthot/pseuds/asgardianthot
Summary: Bucky isn't himself after Hydra. Steve tries his best.An introspection of Bucky from Steve's point of view after he read the files on the Winter Soldier.





	Freight Car

**Author's Note:**

> this is rlly sad..... and there's only light smut for romantic/cathartic purposes.....  
> sorry in advance :)

_Longing. Rusted. Furnace. Daybreak. Seventeen. Benign. Nine. Homecoming. One. Freight car._

Have I thought about me? No.

I've thought about Bucky.

I've thought about how lonely he is when I'm right there, right next to him. I could ask him to stay forever. I want his touch and I want him to heal but somehow he manages to lock himself up in every sense of the word, darkness peering around him so that no bright thoughts could enter his mind.

He loves me, I know. He loves me and I could love him forever but my heart can't take his sorrow. Ever since SHIELD tracked him down and I took him in, harbored him in my apartment, he's been nothing but evasive. Sometimes he'd show me it wasn't his fault nor his will, like the other night when he walked into my room to kiss me and say he was sorry. I followed him, worried, only to find him crawling back under his covers to attempt getting some sleep. _Can you shut the door when you leave?_ He said to me in a tired voice.

I understand. Bucky is as confused as he's ever been and he doesn't want to talk about it because if he did, he would have to go into details of how he was beaten, frozen, tied and abused for decades, and all those horrible things he endured; while I was kept on ice. Unbothered until I felt my body aching and held in its place for long hours, going out and back on before waking up in a false hospital bed. I felt guilty because of the differences on both of our fates.

I read the HYDRA reports once, the ones Romanoff uploaded for the public, but also the ones kept more secretly. The specific ones, the ones with torture treatments, the ones with 'soldier results', the ones with... _pictures_. I cried for half an hour that day, I felt the air leaving my body and being replaced by liquid fire.

I understand. I can't push him. I just want him back.

"Buck?" I knock on the bathroom door, the sound of pressure water running on a confined space. He's been in there for a while now, "Buck, can I come in?"

Nothing. Absolute and utter nothing, nothing but the currently deafening sound of the shower going on for what feels like a decade. My stomach turns, worry starting to pile up in my throat.

"Bucky. Bucky, open up." This time, my voice sounds more like an order.

I despise the mere idea of commanding him anything, however the desperation churning my diaphragm leaves me no choice. When he doesn't answer, I try to force the lock, only to find how useless that is. He's in there and he's been quiet and sad and _tormented_ and he doesn't reply.

"Buck, come on!"

I take one step back and collide my weight into the wood, hitting my shoulder against the door to get it open. It doesn't work the first time. Now, growing helpless, I repeat it only much more determined.

The door crashes open in an aggressive way that would up startle anyone, but not Bucky. He's just sitting on the edge of the tub, balancing his weight not to fall over, not that he'd mind since the back of his head is anyhow receiving a few drops of water. His back is wet and he doesn't seem to even notice.

The ugliest part of the sight, are his eyes. Not only do they seem more lost than usual, but they don't even look like his own. It's as if someone sewed them into a doll that looks like James Buchanan Barnes, forgetting to add joy or human emotions in that mixture. Blankly staring into void, he doesn't show to acknowledge my presence, not even when I kneel down in front of him.

"Hey." I whisper, looking up at his zoned-out face.

His eyes are dead.

I shift my body in a painful angle to shut off the water, basically for no more to go to waste, since his clothes are wet to the point where it doesn't really matter anymore.

"What is it?" I softly ask for a peek of his disastrous thoughts; that's all I need to help him.

He tastes his own tongue as if in a sign of thirst before focusing on me, the light slowly returning to his eyes once he escapes his own trance. So many years being hypnotized and one would think the next person to do that to his brain wouldn't be himself. It's cruel, everything about this, everything about _everything_ is cruel.

"Sorry." He mumbles, looking away but still seemingly grounding himself, "I forgot I had the shower running."

I shake my head and offer his pout a comforting half smile.

" 's alright. Wanna get out of those clothes?" I pull the hems of his soaking shirt, and motion to his hair while I'm at it.

He reflects on the thought for a while, then nods minimally, yet I don't miss the gesture for I'm more alert than I've ever been, tracking his every move. I apply some pressure on his back to incentive him to stand up, yet no ragdoll in the world can compare to Bucky's attitude; he just stands there in the bathroom, half-wet and motionless, looking defeated.

“Here, let me help.” I might as well beg because of how much more of a plea than an offer it sounds, slowly lifting his arms and reaching for the bottom hems of his grey shirt to slide it off.

He keeps his limbs up for a second, and then the clothing item snakes off of his head before I grab a dry towel to cover the back of his neck. Luckily, he receives it, meaning he is at least able to recognize the fact that he is wet and shouldn’t, besides the fact that he can do it by himself. That doesn’t mean he is much too slow at it and I end up helping him dry his hair a little so that it doesn’t drip to his bare back nor to the floor.

“I’m fine.” He tries to reassure me, and fails by the raw difference between his words and my sight.

I gift him a warm grin while my hands shake the wet off of his locks, grazing his temple and cheeks with the towel.

“You used to take care of _me_ , remember? When I was all _tiny_.”

Something appears to click in his brain, if not by my speaking and smiling, by the image it brought back to his immediate memory. His eyes lock with mine, then stares off into distance.

“You got all bruised up.” He says almost mockingly; or as mockingly as his current state of mind allows him.

I can’t help but be lit up by that. With my spirits up to the sky, I decide not to push any further and let him dry his hair by himself, walking away and out of the bathroom for him to follow me. I’m already inside of his room to get him some clothes when he speaks again, frozen in spot by his doorframe, catching my full attention.

“What did they do now?” his words are focused, similar to the one of a child reciting a poem he was commanded to learn, something that makes me wonder if everything is as okay as I thought a second ago, “You can’t keep getting into fights like this. You’ll get seriously hurt one day.”

“Bucky, what…?”

He pretends he doesn’t hear me, “You gotta pick your fights, Steve. I’m not always there to stop them.” The man continues in a taciturn manner, reducing me to a passive listener without the slightest clue, “Tell me what happened.”

Suddenly his eyes are locked into mine from a few inches away, the tension growing bigger and covering up the walls around us. I don’t know what he means, I don’t understand the ways of his mind but I do know he certainly is trying to communicate. I do my best to run the numbers in my head, try to make sense of the things he’s telling me. He remembers, that’s for sure, pretty much about everything.

Perhaps that’s what he’s referring to: his capability of being aware was tied with horrors, and perhaps he was merely insisting on me not trying to get him to talk.

“You don’t have to tell me what’s wrong.” I reassure him, sitting on his bed to show myself available and patient, “I know you know, and that’s enough. _I_ don’t need to know.”

He’s standing there, shirtless, the towel loose around his nape and shoulders, tense muscles like he’s about to burst yet his expression says otherwise.

And he just speaks.

“I called for you.” Bucky’s words are cold and sad, telling me something he knows will cause me to feel guilty.

The only physical response to such accusation I attend is facing the floor and shaking my head, unwillingly. “I know. I should have- I should've been able to...” I mumble the words, not sure if I’m defending or condemning myself in front of the man who fell to his death only to find a much worse fate, because of me. “…to catch you. I should have caught you.”

Once I finish the sentence, I look up. There is no visible response, almost like he wasn’t even listening, but I know he was for he waits a few seconds before shaking his head a bit, denying everything I just said. He barely gives me any time to be confused or feel like he’s denying me the right to apologize, and he shocks my every fiber with his next sentence.

“No, under Hydra.” He states, surprised that I didn’t know, but still very unreadable, “I called for you. Every time. And they hated it.”

Finally, the notion of what he’s saying hits me like a bucket of ice, causing my heart rate to raise infinitely to the point where I feel like I might throw up from the images he’s placing in my head.

“They tried to beat the name out of me, but even then... I called for Steve until I didn't know who Steve was and then I kept on calling for him.” His voice becomes a little more human, the hopelessness in his chest leaking out of his mouth through the vivid memories. His hands begin toying with each other, nervousness being something I haven’t seen in Bucky in a while, “Sometimes the chains from my ankles sort of sounded like- like you were coming, it sounded like Austria. When you came for me.” He ends his statement with an awkward sigh, “But you never did.”

My heart is held by my hands by the time he’s done speaking. What do you reply to something like that?

“For how long?” is all I’m able to produce as a coherent word-combination.

I don’t actually need to know. It will only hurt me further, and perhaps that is what I deserve, in comparison.

His eyebrows bend up in anguish, staring off into distance with a pained expression.

“I don't know.” The way he phrases it sounds more honest than anything he’s ever said; he’s not replying, he’s trying to convince me, “Forever, I...”

Suddenly, his voice breaks at the last vowel, and it’s hearable that he’s choked up at the thought. Part of me feels relieved that he’s conscious, he isn’t some ragdoll nor a shell cleared off of any form of personality and delivered by Hydra to my door in a sick joke, telling me they had poured his soul out of his body. Part of me truly is relieved that he is aware of his own brokenness, of his lack of memory, and of the fact that he’s missing pieces, because that means he can still try and get some of the pieces back.

But not at the cost of him hurting. _Never_ at the cost of Bucky enduring any more pain that he already endured.

“Buck...” I stand up and walk up to him.

He doesn’t seem to acknowledge my near presence, as his gaze is still locked on the floor, even when my body is right in front of his.

He shakes his head with a grimace that sounded like he’s crying, “I don't know, I don't know-“

“It's okay.” I interrupt his wallow by grabbing each side of his face, forcing him to stare at me in an attempt to calm him down, bring his feet back on this earth, “You're here now.”

Yet he’s stuck on that one sole fact, eyes watery and wide open, begging for me to barge in and take care of the situation. If I could do the remembering for him, I would, and both of us would be much more pleased with that. But reality forces us to settle with what needs to be done: Bucky has to make it okay, make himself okay, and I have to sit there and wait as I watch him struggle.

“I don't remember, I don't-“ he continues to ramble with hopelessness.

“You don't have to.” I insist, finally getting his attention, “All of that's behind, that'll never happen again.”

He listens in worry, and even though my eyes are fixated on his I can somewhat see his adam’s apple go up and down, uneasy. He doesn’t know what to do next but he listens to me, doing his best to deposit his trust on me while my thumb runs up and down his temple in a caress.

“I won't let 'em.” I add, frowning with determination.

Suddenly, it appears as Bucky’s ghost left his body, all fear abandoning him after being remembered that even if he isn’t well, he is safe. Not the least of the remaining men Hydra probably kept in hiding is going to catch him because I’m here to make sure that doesn’t happen.

And with that lack of terror stepping into his eyes, along with the breath he lets go, there is now room for something else to take over him. Bucky’s hands fly to the back of my neck and our gap is shut by his initiative, pressing his lips against mine with hunger but not violently. I respond, god, of course I do, because I want him more than I ever wanted anyone.

At the blink of an eye, my body is being pushed against the wall, no prelude needed before Bucky’s soft lips leave my lips to work on my neck, leaving wet kisses and small bites and sucking on it just a little bit. It has my mind skyrocketing, not only because of how much I longed for him, but because we went through a rollercoaster of tensions in the last five minutes and this frenzy could go anywhere from here.

_Longing_

He speaks to my skin while my eyes are closed, my mouth parted open even if the loud breathing I engage in comes from my nose. “Why didn't you...”

Before he can even finish the sentence, I’m losing words at an unfamiliar pace.

“I'm sorry.” I pant out, my hands too stupid to return his petting and caressing, “I'm sorry, Buck.”

His breathing is mildly less hectic than mine when his hands intertwine with mine, guiding them up against the wall where his weight keep them in place.

“I waited.” He insists, filled with pleasure and excitement instead of anger, which is contradictory to what he’s saying.

My vision is still pitch black for I refuse to make the effort to open my eyes, melting under his kiss and breath.

“I'm sorry.” I barely even achieve to twitch my head a little, trying to shake it in a sign of guilt, but I only make my neck more available to his mouth.

“I need you.” His voice is hoarse, like he’s tired, like he’s _exhausted_ from 70 years of being tired, like he’s been holding up for this moment during those 70 years and his vocal cords can’t really take the mild groaning nor the pleasure that caused it.

_Rusted_

His lips crash back into mine, still holding me in place and now pressing his hips into mine, feeling each other’s members grow at the touch. I let out a moan into his mouth, half covered by his and half open to thin air as he slides his tongue inside. I feel my every sense grateful to the point where I can’t even believe it’s actually happening after so long. We’re both in such state, both panting and starting to sweat from the amount of heat oozing from our skin, almost like we’re locked in a confined space, almost inside of a-

_Furnace_

_Daybreak_

Next thing I know his hands let go of mine, the latter falling to my sides and immediately reaching for his hips, and he tugs at the hems of my shirt before pulling it up to get rid of the whole thing, for us to be equally naked. I only then realize a bit of his jeans got wet from the shower. As if doing him a favor and absolutely without even noticing that I’m doing it before it’s done, my fingers work on his belt to get it off and unbutton the clothing item.

His pants are down at his ankles before I can even be aware of my own actions. Bucky seems less damaged now, he seems a lot more light and careless and the only thing that matters is how he’s about to make me lose my clothes as well. Like we’re back in our young years before the torment happened, like it’s 1941 all over again, like when he was-

_Seventeen_

_Benign_

_Nine_

“Buck, let me…” I try to get him to stop attacking my lips and face and neck in order to take care of him.

I want to do all these things to him yet he’s not really allowing me to do so. He stops for a second, in which I can admire his agitated body, rid of anything but his briefs, as am I by this point, that leads me to the bed. He acts less desperate, but _looks_ worse than before when it comes to hunger. He doesn’t answer my interpellation.

“I want…” he tries and fails, swallowing fast as my body is pushed down onto the side of the bed, where I sit and he doesn’t, “Let me. _Please_.”

Confused, I allow him to take initiative. His body falls on top of mine and his hands palpate my growth, to what I can’t react in any way that isn’t letting my head fall back in satisfaction. I want to talk, to make this whole thing ours by communicating it to each other, yet I don’t think he’s going for that. And I don’t know if that’s a good thing.

“Talk to me.” I breath out, panting out of my mind, in a very obvious plea; my hands move the moist strands of hair off of his face and then are kept in position, holding the side of his head with beggar intentions, “Bucky, talk to me.”

He shakes his head while staring down at my desperate self –desperate for his touch and voice at the same time–, running his palms from the crook of my neck to my chest. His eyes scream something I can’t decipher.

“I…” he cuts himself off, unsure of what to say, like he’s keeping a secret from me, “I need you. I don’t wanna… I just need you.”

And I understand. It’s difficult, this whole thing really, for there is so much to be said. So much he wishes to press onto me like it’s my fault for it to make sense, even if it meant hurting me in the process. And he will, I know, and he can’t forgive himself nor anyone else for it, I know, but he doesn’t. He drowns in the moment before it vanishes because it will, it will vanish.

And staring off into the frightening future, all that really matters is that he’s back. And he’s with me.

_Homecoming_

_One_

I give him that. What he needs, which is me, and this moment kept in an air bubble when it’s surrounded by the harshness of yesterday and of tomorrow. I give myself that: an illusion. A moment.

Bucky’s senses go back to where he was seconds earlier, devouring my lips as his hands now slide under my boxer briefs where he grabs my pulsating cock, beginning to give me some sort of release. I groan under his firm and gentle and hot and needy touch, melt under whatever he wishes to do to me because he might as well have put imaginary restraints on me. I can barely caress the back of his head, plus lift my hips, and that’s about it since he has me under some sort of spell.

Then Bucky bites at my neck and I want him to kill me right there because it feels like I’m about to come from just his hands and teeth, and whatever that will happen after I come will bring me somewhat back into reality. I want the illusion. I want to feel like nothing bad happened to us and that maybe on day it could all go back to where we left off.

_Freight car._


End file.
